Читать книгу Before Winter - Nancy Wallace K. - Страница 15

Marcus insisted that they look for Lavender, and they did, but if she still existed, she had blended back into the landscape like a native flower or shrub. Nothing remained but the little carved head of Marcus and their memories of her.

“I made her cry,” Marcus said gruffly, stuffing the carved head in his pocket.

Devin sighed. “Perhaps it wasn’t you as much as the situation. It’s been hard on everyone.”

“Do you think she was …” Marcus hesitated.

“A ghost?” Devin asked. “Perhaps. But we touched her, smelled her, she ate our food.”

“The food sack,” Marcus said suddenly and set it down to rummage through it.

Devin knew what Marcus would find before he announced it. “The heads are all gone. Every last one of them.”

“Except the one she carved for you,” Devin pointed out.

Marcus withdrew it from his pocket, held it humbly in his hands for a few moments. “Did I ever thank her?”

“I’m sure you did,” Devin replied.

Marcus slipped the token back in his pocket.

Devin’s eyes still searched the rocks and bushes around them, hoping that he might catch sight of a scrap of tattered brown fabric or a tiny footprint to convince them that Lavender had traveled with them and touched their lives for several days.

Marcus grabbed his sleeve. “Come on, then,” he said finally. “Night falls earlier now. We need to go.”

They left the ruins of Albion’s church behind. Above the deep ravine, the terrain flattened out. Statuesque spruce trees circled a small clearing knee deep in long grass and scattered wildflowers. Here hawks soared, and rabbits and deer grazed in the late-afternoon shadows. It was like another world compared to the valley behind them. Light, fragrant, and warm.

Devin tripped on a raised stone. He dropped his pack, hoping it might be a headstone, and knelt to pull the weeds away.

“The Town of Albion, Destroyed by Flood, 12 Avril 1406,” he read as Marcus bent to look. “It’s the same day Father Sébastian’s journal begins.”

Devin walked in a wide circle from the stone, swinging his foot to crush the tall grass. “I’d hoped there might be some gravestones,” he said in disappointment.

“The bodies would have washed downstream and Father Sébastian couldn’t have dragged bodies up that slope anyway, Devin!” Marcus said. “Not only that, whoever destroyed the dam, would have searched for survivors. Had even a few of the bodies been buried, it would have been obvious that someone survived. Anyone who knew the truth about what happened would have been killed.”

“And yet, Lavender knew the story.”

“The person who created the story may have made an assumption as to who destroyed the dam.”

“But the Chronicles are very precise,” Devin objected. “The story of Albion’s destruction would never have been included in Tirolien’s Chronicle if there was some doubt about its veracity.”

“Lavender never said the story came from the Chronicles, Devin,” Marcus pointed out. “She said that her father told her about it.”

Devin inclined his head. “That’s true.” His eyes drifted over the clearing, watching as the tall grass bent like waves in the wind. “But if this really was one of the first settlements in Llisé, it existed for hundreds of years before its destruction. There would have had to be a cemetery for the church. All of those graves would predate the flood.”

“I’m sure you’re right but we don’t have time to look for a cemetery, Devin. We need to get back to La Paix as quickly and safely as possible. I’m sorry.”

Devin exhaled. “I understand.”

Marcus skirted the clearing, startling the deer, their white tails flashing as they dashed into the forest beyond. “Perhaps the journal will answer some of your questions.”

“I hope,” Devin said. It was as though the book was physically hot, burning a hole in his jacket lining. He wanted desperately to take it out and read it, to sit down right in this field and discover the secrets it contained. Had it been possible, he would have read it as he walked.

“Perhaps Father Sébastian wrote a list of the dead in his journal,” Marcus suggested.

Devin nodded. “I saw a list of names when I was flipping through the pages.” If Father Sébastian left a journal chronicling the fate of his parishioners, Devin felt certain it was meticulous. How strange that it had lain there waiting several hundred years to be found and read!

“We’ll look at it tonight,” Marcus promised. “We need to find a protected place to sleep. Despite what we left behind us, that valley sheltered us well and kept us safe.”

They continued around the clearing, but much to Devin’s disappointment they discovered no gravestones along the way. He wanted to stay and search, to learn all the secrets this valley had to offer but he knew it was impossible now. In the few minutes he had spent with the villagers in his dreams, he had felt a connection to them in a raw, emotional sense. He’d shared their laughter and their terror and they were bound to him in a way he couldn’t explain to Marcus or anyone else, except maybe Jeanette.

Perhaps in the future he and Jeanette could return together just as he hoped they could go back to the ruined Archives and discover whether anything remained there. The more he saw of the provinces, the more he loved them. Each one held riches that the residents of Coreé never could dream of in their insular little worlds. Perhaps there was a way of combining his love of the Archives with his desire to add the wealth of history the provinces also offered.

Their route dipped into one valley after another and by twilight their legs were tired from climbing. “I see now why the road was built where it was,” Devin observed, as he dropped down onto a grassy knoll where oak trees’ massive trunks formed a kind of fortress.

“It’s too dark to walk any further,” Marcus said. “This will do as well as any other for a place to spend the night.”

Devin let his pack slide from his shoulders, his hand immediately working the journal up through the tear in the lining and slipping it out. He stretched out for a moment, the journal open in his hands. “It’s too dark to read,” he said in disappointment. “I don’t suppose you’ll allow us a fire?”

“No,” Marcus said. “I’ve no idea how far we’ve come and what villages might be nearby. It’s best to be safe. And put that book away if you can’t read it. We’re not at an inn. You have no idea when we might have to leave suddenly.”

Reluctantly, Devin slid the journal back in its hiding place. It was only after they had decided to stay for the night that the ground seemed overrun with exposed roots. Under the trees, there was little grass and the ground was hard as rock. Marcus produced a bit of moldy bread for dinner; it was too late to hunt. They drank their fill of the water from the skins Marcus had replenished earlier and resigned themselves to empty bellies until morning brought another chance for a meal.

Devin’s mind was busy with the details of the safe room they had found. “Father Sébastian locked the door from the inside,” Devin observed. “He must have been afraid for his own life.”

“I’m sure he wanted it to appear to whoever blew up the dam that everyone in Albion was killed,” Marcus said. “If Father Sébastian was seen, he would have been hunted down.”

“And yet Lavender claimed he told her that we needed the key to unlock the door,” Devin reminded him.

Marcus unrolled his blanket. He raised his eyebrows at Devin. “I don’t believe Father Sébastian appeared in person.”

“She did have a brother named Sébastian. You don’t think they could be one and the same?”

“Only if she were a ghost, Devin, and I’m not ready to accept that explanation yet,” Marcus replied. “I think she was a very sad old lady who somehow lost her family and her way. I’m not sure anything she told us was accurate.”

“But those carved heads were so meticulous. May I see yours?” Devin held out a hand.

Marcus handed it over with reluctance, placing it on Devin’s palm.

Devin traced the carving with his fingers; the frowning forehead and spray of wrinkles around Marcus’ eyes were typical. Only the mouth was unusual. “She made you smiling!” he said in surprise.

“Well, I do smile occasionally,” Marcus blustered. “Give that back!”

Devin chuckled and handed it over. “If Lavender was a spirit, she could actually have been the little girl who lost her pony in Arcadia’s Chronicle.”

“Then why didn’t she appear to us as a little girl?” Marcus asked.

Devin shrugged. “Because she may have lived a long time, searching these mountains for the pony she loved. We have no idea how old she was when she died.”

“I’m not sure we will ever discover exactly who or what Lavender was. There is really no sense speculating about it when there is no way to prove whether one theory or another is correct!”

“That’s true,” Devin agreed. “But I would rather think she was a spirit than a very old woman wandering alone out here in the night. I do wonder about her brother named Sébastian.”

“Do you know the last name of the Lavender who appeared in Arcadia’s Chronicle?” Marcus asked.

Devin shook his head. “I don’t believe Armand ever told me. So many of those stories aren’t dated either; we can only assume they took place at a certain time from hints in the story. Even if the Chronicle doesn’t specify her last name, Armand might still know.”

“You’ll have to wait to ask him then,” Marcus said, stifling a yawn.

Devin pulled his knees up and crossed his arms on them. “Do you want me to take the first watch?”

“If you like,” Marcus answered. “How do you feel? No more voices in your head?”

“None,” Devin answered. “I believe those voices were only meant to lead us to Father Sébastian and this journal. I don’t think I will hear them again.”

“Still,” Marcus said, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders and curling into a ball at the foot of an oak. “Wake me if you do.”

Devin smiled. “You’ll be the first to know.” He looked west, toward Calais and the sea and saw the full orange globe of the moon rising. The wind increased, rattling the branches in the grove of oaks and the air smelled of rain. Overhead, an owl asked questions of the night as small animals scurried through the grass. In the distance, a wolf howled and was answered by another.

It was a relief to hear normal night noises and not the unearthly quiet of the valley where Albion had stood. If ever a place was haunted – that one was. He thought of Comte Aucoin’s chateau and the ghosts that seemed to chasten Angelique. If spirits linger simply to correct a wrong, why had Angelique’s family tormented her dreams, turning them into nightmares? Or were nightmares something else altogether?

For the past few days, he’d felt as though his dreams had become muddled with his daily life and it was hard to separate one from the other. He’d always had a problem with “waking dreams.” It had started when he was a child and seemed to happen when he was just at the point of waking up. Something or someone in his room would appear to be something else – usually something frightening. The malady had followed him into his adult years and had proved a great source of amusement to his roommate and best friend, Gaspard, when he was at the université. After Dr. Verstegan, a friend of one of his older brothers, had prescribed valerian before he went to bed, the dreams had stopped, only to return on this trip. Lavender had brought back the uncertainty of what was real and what was not. Thankfully, Marcus had seen her and spoken with her, too, or he might have doubted his own sanity.

A few hours after midnight, it began to rain, a damp misty drizzle at first and then a downpour, bringing Marcus upright, his blanket over his head. “What in God’s name!” he grumbled.

Devin turned to look at him. “Sorry, I can keep watch but I can’t control the weather.”

Marcus gave a shiver, pulling his sodden blanket around him. “It’s late. Why didn’t you waken me?”

“I could feel the rain coming,” Devin answered. “I thought I’d give you a chance to sleep while it was dry.”

“Not so great for you!” Marcus observed. “Where’s your blanket?”

“I’m sitting on it,” Devin replied. “I thought I’d keep it as dry as I could. I’m worried about the journal.”

“Why don’t you sleep against one of the trunks?” Marcus suggested. “Put the side of your jacket with the Chronicle and the journal against the tree. You can have my blanket, too, if you like.”

“No, thank you,” Devin said, sliding over to hug the nearest oak tree. “It’s already soaked.”

He moved to snuggle against the tree trunk and found the bark ridged and unyielding. He doubled his blanket over his shoulders and closed his eyes but the drip from overhead branches made sleep impossible. After several unsuccessful attempts, he watched a gray dawn touch the eastern horizon with Marcus.

“Can we move on?” he asked.

“If you’re ready,” Marcus answered. “This doesn’t appear to be letting up. We may as well be on our way.”

The rain continued all day, leaving their clothes and boots soaked. Finally, by late afternoon the storm clouds scudded off, leaving the sky brilliantly blue and cloudless.

“It’s going to be cold tonight,” Marcus predicted. “We need to find shelter – somewhere we can dry our clothes and get warm.”

“Do you have any money?” Devin asked.

“I picked the pockets of the men I dropped in the bay,” Marcus admitted. “What are you thinking?”

“Finding an inn, perhaps?” Devin suggested. “If I tie this bandage around my eyes and find a stout stick, I could pretend that I am blind and you are my father. We’d hardly fit the description of the men the soldiers are seeking.”

Marcus shook his head. “That’s risky, Devin. I think we need to stay out of any populated areas.”

“A cave then?” Devin asked hopefully, thinking of the misery of sleeping outside on a cold night in wet clothes.

“We’ll see,” Marcus said without agreeing.

They crossed fields, slithered down into ravines, and clambered over stone walls, all to avoid the main road. As the light began to dim, Marcus spotted what looked like a low shelter for livestock at the corner of a pasture.

“That looks promising,” Marcus remarked cheerfully. “Stay here in the hedgerow while I check it out.”

He was only gone for a few minutes, skirting the field and soundlessly approaching the shelter from the back. For a man on the far side of forty, he moved like a cat, swiftly and silently covering the distance. Devin lost sight of him when he disappeared inside. A moment later he motioned Devin ahead.

“Luck is on our side,” Marcus said with a grin. “This is a shepherd’s hut. There’s dry straw to sleep on and even a lantern filled with oil!”

“Too bad there is no roast mutton hidden away,” Devin said as his stomach rumbled.

“That I don’t have,” Marcus replied. “But there is time enough for me to hunt and you can read your precious journal tonight as long as you keep the lantern shuttered.”

Devin dropped his pack and felt for the pages of the Chronicle in his jacket. They were warm and dry and so was the journal. “We’re lucky indeed,” Devin agreed.

Marcus left his pack on the straw. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with something to eat.”

Removing the journal, Devin took off his jacket and hung it to dry on one of the branches which had escaped the interwoven tangle of limbs which made up the walls of the hut. Though the structure was open on one side, the three remaining walls broke the wind. He propped his back against the corner and opened the journal.

The first page recording the date was written in larger handwriting than the contents of the journal. Devin squinted at the first entry in frustration as the letters and words blurred together. He rubbed his eyes but no matter how he struggled, the words were as indecipherable as though they were written in a foreign language. What if this problem with his eyesight was permanent? He could never return to his work at the Archives. Of what use was an archivist who couldn’t read or copy manuscripts? He put the journal back in his jacket. He’d had little or no sleep last night, he rationalized. Perhaps that was part of the problem, and admittedly the light inside the hut wasn’t good either. He put his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. A short nap might improve things.

Marcus entered, wakening him. He laid two skinned rabbits down on the hay. “I thought you’d be devouring that journal!” he said in surprise.

Devin passed a hand over his eyes. “I guess my lack of sleep got the better of me. Perhaps we can read it together after dinner.”

“Read it to me while I cut these rabbits up,” Marcus directed. “I think we might be able to roast them a bit over that lantern.”

Devin slid forward. “I can’t, Marcus.”

“You can’t what?” he asked, busy with his rabbits. “I know you don’t like raw meat. I just said I’m going to try to cook it for you.”

“It’s not that,” Devin answered.

“Then what’s the matter?” Marcus asked, sparing him an annoyed look.

“I can’t read,” Devin blurted out. “My eyes are blurry all the time. I can’t see straight.”

Marcus dropped his knife and turned around. “When you first mentioned this, I assumed it was temporary. You read the date in that journal to me yesterday.”

Devin turned the book so he could see it. “The date and Father Sébastian’s name are written much larger. I was able to make that much out. But in the journal entries …” He turned a page and held the book up for Marcus, “the writing is much smaller. See for yourself.”

“God, Devin, I had no idea! You should have told me,” Marcus replied. “It’s only been five days, maybe it will go away.”

“Maybe,” Devin conceded.

“Have the headaches stopped?”

“Yes, and the dizziness, too. It’s only the blurriness in my eyes that’s remained.”

“What can I do?” Marcus asked.

“Read the journal to me tonight,” Devin said. “We need to know what’s in it. If something should happen – if the book were captured – no one would know the truth about what happened at Albion.”

“Anything,” Marcus promised. “I don’t know what to say, Devin. You know I shot you to save your life.”

Devin nodded. Marcus’ concern seemed palpable. He had no desire to reassure him; he didn’t have the heart. Losing his eyesight would bring all his dreams crashing down and he wasn’t ready to deal with that now.

The lantern proved efficient at cooking bits of rabbit on wet sticks. The edges were crisp and the center tender and juicy. Devin couldn’t remember having enjoyed a meal more. They were both famished after last night’s lack of dinner and this was certainly an improvement over moldy bread!

Marcus disposed of the remains of the rabbits and returned with two full waterskins. He sat down next to Devin against the wall and pulled the lantern to his side. “Let’s have that journal,” he said.

Devin handed it to him, watching as he opened it to the first entry. “I, Father Sébastian Chastain, priest to the people of Albion and Rodez …”

“Rodez?” Devin interrupted. “That’s another very small village. It’s not far from the Arcadia border.”

“I’m not familiar with it but if their priest disappeared, there might be more information at one of the churches close by.” Marcus glanced at Devin. “You know we can’t take the time to look for any more information now?”

“I know that,” said Devin, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. “It simply adds more validity to the journal, especially if there are secondary sources describing the destruction of Albion. Go on.”

“… must record the events that led to the destruction of Albion and all its citizens. On 12 Avril 1406, Gascon Forneaux …”

“Forneaux?” Devin yelped. “Is it possible that this could be René Forneaux’s ancestor?”

“We’ll never know if you keep interrupting me!” Marcus snapped. He took a deep breath and began again. “Gascon Forneaux and some of his men destroyed the dam holding back the waters of Gave d’Oloron, subsequently flooding the town of Albion and drowning all of its inhabitants. I saw the waters coming over a great distance from the hill above the church and rang the bell to alert my parishioners but my efforts came too late. Every man, woman, and child was swept away by the onslaught and I will forever bear the guilt of their deaths. Had I only reached the church bell sooner, I might have saved some of their lives.”

Devin exhaled. “What a burden to bear! He blamed himself and yet he couldn’t have done more than he did.”

“I am leaving this journal in the hope that my sister Lavender or one of my brothers may find it and give it to my father. They are the only ones that I have shown this safe room to. News of my death will bring them here to search for answers.” Marcus dropped the journal on his knee. “Now that is just scary! So, Lavender actually was Sébastian’s sister?”

“His little sister,” Devin reminded him. “The Lavender that the story made famous was a child when she ran after her pony. What would have brought her to Tirolien, do you think? Even had he shown her that room as a child, she wouldn’t have been able to travel all this way by herself.”

“But maybe as an adult she did,” Marcus said. “Maybe she was drawn here because of her brother’s death.”

“She said she had heard the story from her father,” Devin added. “So her brother must have died before she ran away. Could her brother have written to his father expressing his concerns about Gascon Forneaux and the villagers’ refusal to pay their taxes? Do you suppose he expected retribution?”

Marcus shook his head. “This is all too complicated for me. I feel as though I’ve fallen into a fairytale.”

“Keep reading,” Devin urged.

“It is incomprehensible that the rivalry between two brothers could have cost so many innocent people their lives,” Marcus continued.

“Two brothers?” Devin repeated. “Does he give the other brother’s name? I think there was a Forneaux who was elected as Chancellor several hundred years ago.” He heard the faint sound of voices. “What is that?” he asked, holding up a hand for silence.

“It sounds like people talking,” Marcus said.

Devin stood up. Through the trees he saw the intermittent light of lanterns swinging. “Someone’s coming.”

Marcus was on his feet, too, snuffing the lantern but taking it with them. “Devin, pick up your pack! We need to get out of here!” he hissed.

They stumbled through the dark, tripping over rocks and tree roots, hoping desperately that their hasty escape wouldn’t be heard by the group moving into the pasture behind them. They made their way to the far side of the field and scrambled below the brow of the hill, pausing long enough to glance back. A group of twelve people with several lanterns between them gathered at the shepherd’s hut Marcus and Devin had just left.

“Who are they?” Marcus whispered.

“Druides?” Devin guessed.

Marcus turned to look at him. “Seriously?”

“I don’t know,” Devin whispered. “I don’t have any better idea than you do!”

The group sat down on the ground, putting the lanterns in a circle in the middle. As they had crossed the field, Devin noticed in the wavering light of their lanterns that none of them were dressed alike. They wore no robes that identified them as a group or a cult and most importantly, they carried no visible weapons.

“Stay here,” Marcus directed. “I’m going to do a little reconnaissance. If I’m captured or killed – do your best to get back to La Paix without any further mishaps. I fear leaving you on your own more than anything.” He crossed himself elaborately and winked at Devin. “Don’t do anything rash,” he whispered as he crept forward, soundlessly crossing toward the back of the shepherd’s hut.

Devin waited in silence, his hands sweaty, and his heart thumping until Marcus finally arrived behind the hut. At last, Marcus crouched, still and immovable as the trees that bordered the field. The moments stretched into more than an hour and Devin began to feel the air chill as the wind dropped. He slid his wet coat on and buttoned it. Slipping his pack over his shoulder, he prepared to run should Marcus indicate that it was necessary, but Marcus was as still as stone. What was he doing, anyway? Was he afraid to draw attention to himself by leaving or was he gathering information? It was all Devin could do to keep from scrambling over the hilltop to join him.

And yet the minutes dragged on. The waning moon shone overhead now, having lost only a bit of its fullness. Its light outlined the roof and the slope of Marcus’ shoulders and made the way back toward where Devin hid seem a little less treacherous. Devin flexed his legs and hands to avoid stiffness, but Marcus showed no sign of moving. After several hours, the group that had gathered in the hut finally stood up, retrieved their lanterns, and went back the way they had come, disturbing nothing at all with their passing. Most fortunate of all, they seemed to have no knowledge at all of Marcus’ presence.